


Take Care of Me (Scenario 52-B)

by Aelfay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gentle Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Protective Greg, Skin Hunger, Vulnerable Mycroft, torture mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-07-20 21:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelfay/pseuds/Aelfay
Summary: Following an MI6 mission gone wrong, Mycroft Holmes has physically but not mentally recovered. Struggling to adjust to personal contact, he finds himself craving closeness. Will Greg help him to heal?(Soft PWP, touch-starved Mycroft, gentle Greg.)





	1. Chapter 1

 

Greg was tired, but feeling good; he’d finally finished the last of the paperwork from that case a fortnight ago, which meant he could file it all away until it went to court. He’d actually had lunch. Sally had a date tonight and it had made her happy and easy to be around. 

So he could be a little excused for not looking thrilled about the black car that greeted him outside. He got in, of course. But he’d been hoping for an evening off, and Mycroft always meant... Sherlock. And insanity. He braced himself internally, wondering what had happened this time to pull him in. 

The car wound through London. Greg lost track of where they were, just gazing blankly at street lamps, and then they stopped at a rather posh building. He frowned. 

“Number 382,” the driver said quietly, “your birthdate." 

Greg swallowed, but nodded, getting out, suddenly wary. What if it wasn’t Mycroft at all?

Number 382. On the front step, his phone went off, and he glanced at the text. 

 

**Be careful with him. A**  

 

He frowned at it, even more wary now, but keyed in his birthdate on the keypad lock. The door made a thunk noise - must be one hell of a deadbolt, Greg realised - and he pushed it open, closing it behind him.  

Quiet. Hushed. His steps on the hall rug felt muffled. Soft woods, clean metals; a well-to-do home speaking of understated luxury. Mycroft’s then. Greg swallowed. Why was he here? He might not know Mycroft’s job title, but he knew it was worth his life to be here. Unless it was a safe house: one of many. 

There was a paper dossier on the small hall table, tucked into a niche in the wall. 

_Extreme Combat Fatigue Touch Deprivation Emergency Scenario 52-B: Gregory Lestrade, D.I._

Greg stared at it. The first bit - combat fatigue meant PTSD, right? Fancy term. Touch deprivation being... what, solitary confinement, maybe? And then his name. Fuck, was he being locked alone in the house? He swallowed, approaching, and opened it. 

It was typed, each paragraph numbered and lettered, formal and precise. Reading it was like reading a paper in university, or one of the files lawyers handed him. But Greg’s eyes widened at the content. 

 

_Section One:_

_1-A: This Scenario is only to be implemented in extreme emergencies wherein Scenarios 0A-52A have been attempted and failed to produce satisfactory results._

_1-B: Staff and Personnel will be terminated without benefits, pension, or any other assistance if they attempt to access Section 3 of this Scenario._

_1-C: Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is not to be held, detained, forced, coerced, or otherwise pressured into complying with the Scenario here described. Any attempt to do so will be met with termination as outlined in section 1-B._

 

Greg paused at his name, lingering over 1-C. So there was a chance he wouldn’t like this... scenario, whatever. But he wasn’t trapped. He felt his spine relax slightly, and he flipped the page to Section Two. 

This section had more parts, but they were all rather bland, except for a few that popped out. Section 2-A explained that both Mycroft’s personal assistant and Sherlock Holmes were to assess his condition before proceeding to allow the Scenario to continue. Still no mention of what they were assessing, Greg noticed. The rest read out as a list of instructions regarding getting Greg to Mycroft’s house: wait for his work to be completed. Pick him up politely. Give him the key code, and allow him into the house. 

Greg noted there was no mention of a text. He assumed that was Mycroft’s PA, doing a little extra. He frowned at the page, reading Section 2-V:  

 

_Section 3 is in the safe behind my hall portrait. The code is the first four letters of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade’s favourite childhood football player. Access by persons other than Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade will be dealt with as outlined in Section 1-B._

 

Greg looked at the hall. One portrait of a woman hung on the wall, and he bit his lip, going over to it and very carefully lifting it down off the hook. The safe was small, set into the wall, with another keypad. 

Childhood football player. Well. Greg hummed, thinking back. It had changed several times, but the one he’d kept as his favourite the longest was... He keyed in four letters, hoping. 

The safe swung open. Of course Mycroft knew, Greg mused, looking inside. He frowned when he only saw one piece of paper in the folder. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gregory (as I shall call you, because you shall never see this, and so I may indulge);

If you’re reading this, the absurd has come to pass. This is a final scenario - a foolish whim.  

I am not drunk, but I am being very sincerely ridiculous as I type this out, and I am fully aware of it, and yet. It is a small comfort to know it will be put away safe and never used. 

In my work - in my life - there is always risk. I am an office man - I write and read and sign and occasionally debate. Rare are the scenarios that require my presence, let alone any danger. 

And yet - occasionally the worst happens. I have seen it happen to colleagues. I intend to be prepared.

If I am harmed in any way, I do not foresee struggle with the physical effect of pain. Pain is a simplistic neurological message to shut down, especially with the proper medications. 

Trust is far harder to rebuild, I fear, especially in my line of work. I know myself, Gregory, and I shall make it through the pain and attempt to make it through any residual mental effects as well. There are 1,353 other scenarios, after all. I am nothing if not well-prepared.  

But should I fail, Gregory, my work will suffer. I am unaccustomed to touch and socialising at the best of times, but I will become neurotic, jumpy, paranoid. I will go from meetings, to conference calls, to letters. From my club to my office to my home. I will close off.

If I fail, Gregory, in 1,353 ways, you will be reading this now. 

Sherlock and I have had similar approaches to the mind, to sentiment, to bodily distractions and human engagement, and yet I have seen that Doctor Watson enhances him in ways I could not have predicted. After the incident with Jefferson Hope, I took the liberty of an afternoon and analysed my own social circle for anyone who could do the same for me. But after the indulgence of such analysis, I quickly realised that to attempt to request such a partnership was a presumption. Such companionship could never be bought, bargained, or directed. To request it on such flimsy reasoning - “I wish to have what my brother has” - what imperious behaviour. 

I set it aside. I could not be worthy of such a person.

You are reading this, which means I have failed in 1,354 ways. Because I must ask of you the imperious, the pompous, the absurd, when I know I am patently unworthy of your goodwill.

If this does not work, I will use a code red. You need not worry about hurting me. 

Please take care of me, Gregory. 

Mycroft Holmes


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg begins the careful work of taking care of a Holmes, gently coaxing Mycroft into calmness and safety. Mycroft finds that being taken care of by someone he trusts is exactly as lovely as he'd imagined.

Mycroft was trembling. He’d heard the lock. The front door. The shift to the table, then the safe. 

Hands shaking. Adrenaline response. Anxiety. Fight or flight. Slow breaths. One, two, three, four, five. Out, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Curled under the blankets, nude, fetal position. Don’t want to be touched. Want to be touched. Held. Claustrophobic. The light was too bright outside the blankets. 

In, one, two, three, four, five. Out, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Footsteps on the stairs. He whimpered, curling tighter. Monsters under the bed, he remembered. Hide under the duvet to be safe. Foolish as a child.

Just an anxiety response. Neuroreceptors over and under-stimulated, out of balance due to extreme psychological stress. 

In, one, two, three, four, five. Out, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

The door opened and Mycroft went from trembling to shaking. He pressed a hand to his mouth as his body wracked with shivers, trying to hold back his whimper. He felt, more than heard, Greg’s intake of breath. He’d see it all - the crumpled suit on the floor. The wreck that was his room. The lights all off, the curtains drawn, leaving the peek of the sun round the curtain edge. The ruin that was Mycroft, a lump under the covers, a once dignified man reduced to hiding from the monsters. 

He waited for the footsteps to go back down the stairs. 

Instead, they came closer, and Mycroft almost sobbed with a mixture of anticipation and fear. And then a low murmur - soft, as though Gregory knew how every sound grated on Mycroft’s brain. “I’m about to sit on the bed, now. Get my shoes off, don’t need to ruin your things. Bit of shifting,” Gregory said. 

Mycroft’s brain went still. It was almost shocking how the words centred him so quickly. His entire body was focused on the shift of the bed. The soft huff of Gregory’s breath changing as he bent to undo his laces. A soft noise as the shoes dropped, one then the other, onto the rug. 

Mycroft needed to know he wasn’t hallucinating. 

He threw the covers back with a whine. Greg sat up at the sudden flurry of movement, looking at him. His hair was spiked up, lines on his face calm and steady, and he looked so warm. 

Mycroft scrambled for him, shaking so hard he could barely breathe, begging. The leader of the known world reduced to half-sentences, to tearful nonsensical mixtures of words. “Hold - hold - help me, I - please. Please,” he gasped, body uncoordinated as he tried to find his way out of the duvet and closer to Gregory’s soft safety in any way he knew how. 

Gregory took over before Mycroft truly made any progress. He shifted further onto the bed, gathering the shaking, naked man into his arms, and lying back across the bed, so Mycroft was still half under and tangled in bedclothes. His chest was pressed to Gregory’s shirt, nose tucked against the smell of cologne and sweat on his neck, hands gripping and clutching desperately at the fabric, making the shirt wrinkle. 

“I’ve got you,” Gregory promised, and Mycroft’s body wracked with a muffled sob. “I’ve got you. I’ll hold you, Mycroft, course I will. Right here.” His voice was still soft gravel, so quiet for Mycroft’s tired brain as he sobbed trembling tears into Greg’s shirt collar - relief, this time. 

When the tears turned into sniffles, Gregory was still holding him, hands steady on his back. One thumb was tracing circles over his side. Mycroft could hear, faintly, through Greg’s collarbone, the soft thu-thump of Gregory’s heartbeat. 

Mycroft had never felt so lost and so at home at the same time.

Once he got up the courage to look, he glanced up at Gregory, sniffling again. Greg looked back, eyes so soft, and murmured, “You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you? Poor man.”

Mycroft nodded, sniffling, too worn for his pride to bristle. Besides - Gregory wouldn’t mock him. Gregory was steady and safe, eyes sympathetic, not pitying. 

Also, it was patently obvious from the fresh scars on Mycroft’s body that he had been having a very rough time of it, so it was true. 

“Good man. Breathe for me, then, My,” Greg directed, and Mycroft followed, melting against him at the “good man”. Gregory hadn’t left. He’d come in and held him and called him a good man even after seeing Mycroft curled into the fetal position on his bed; he hadn’t even infantilised Mycroft into a “good boy.” Mycroft breathed for him. 

“That’s it. Lovely. I’m just going to shift this hand, get this jacket off,” Greg began, and paused when Mycroft whimpered involuntarily. Mycroft didn’t know how to explain his distress, instead looking up at him, and Greg paused, before saying slowly, “Or you could help me get this jacket off, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s hands fumbled at the buttons instantly, his distress melting away as he focused on each one, trying to be careful. Greg watched him, and Mycroft could feel his gaze on his face, but instead of making him feel awkward, he felt centred. Safety washed over him in waves of contentment, and when he reached the final button he whined in devastation. 

Gregory swallowed once, scanning his face, and then said, just as quietly, but firm- “Take it off me, Mycroft.”

Mycroft helped him sit, shivering. He was gentle as he slid it off Gregory’s shoulders, nuzzling once at the one he’d cried on, and then he folded it neatly and set it aside. Greg was watching him the whole time, and when he finished, feeling distress creep in again, Greg preempted it this time. 

“Come here,” he said, opening his arms. “I want to hold you.”

Mycroft melted into his arms, feeling the warmth of his skin sink into his soul. “G-Gregory, I-”

“Shh,” Greg soothed, stroking up and down his back. “Are you going to code red?”

Mycroft shook his head mutely, nuzzling closer into Gregory’s skin, and Greg nodded. “Good. Then let me have what I want.”

Mycroft’s stomach fizzled as he relaxed. Gregory wanted. Mycroft wasn’t being selfish. He closed his eyes, shivering once before melting back against Greg. 

“That’s it,” Greg approved softly. “That’s lovely, darlin’, relax. How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

Mycroft swallowed, trying to remember, and then Gregory’s hand slipped into his hair and thought fizzled out. “Too long?” Greg guessed, touch soft as he stroked through the curling strands, the product long worn off. “Sweet man. We’ll change the number on that file. Scenario 0-A, mm? Call me right over next time, darlin’. Breathe for me, now, yeah?”

Breathing, Mycroft's tension seeped out of his body as he held onto Gregory like a lifeline, the fingers on his scalp seeming to pull out stress with each pass. 

“Here’s what I want,” Greg said, after a moment. “I want to eat, I haven’t yet, and I’m distracted by my stomach. And I’m pretty certain you need food, too. Shh, darlin’, not lettin’ you go.” Mycroft had stiffened in distress at the thought of Gregory leaving him for the kitchen. “Right here, Mycroft, that’s it. Relax for me again, good man. Very good. I’m not leaving you alone.”

Mycroft looked up at him, distressed. Gregory should eat. But Greg smiled at him, hand moving from Mycroft’s hair to cup his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek softly. “‘s all right, darlin’, just wanted to ask if you’d trust me to make up a bit of oatmeal in the dark, come down to the kitchen with me. Not leaving you by yourself.”

Mycroft leaned into his hand, shuddering, considering. His room was a quiet haven, blocking out everything that had led to his current breakdown. But it hadn’t stopped it. And Gregory’s touch was a balm for his soul that he didn’t want to lose. He asked, voice hoarse from crying, “Will I be allowed to-to-?” He reached up to cover Gregory’s hand with his own, trying to demonstrate.

“Yes,” Greg said softly. “Yes. You can touch me, Mycroft. Hold on, if you need to. That’s all right. Just a quick shift down, and then back up here so I can hold you and feed us both, mm?”

Mycroft swallowed nervously but nodded, clutching Gregory’s hand. He let himself be sat up, Greg gently helping him stand on shaky feet, leading him into the hall. Mycroft led the way, bare feet padding on the floor. 

Greg tugged his hand to stop him before they reached the kitchen, and he turned, eyes wide, worried he’d done something wrong, but instead Greg was pulling him closer. 

The hug made his entire body shiver, and he leaned into Greg’s steady chest, as Gregory murmured in his ear, “Decided I wanted one of these real quick. You’re lovely, Mycroft.”

Mycroft wanted to protest: the softness over muscle, the new, unfaded scars. But Gregory’s arms tightened around him slightly, and then he felt a protective kiss pressed to his curls, and any instinct to protest faded into sheer shocked bliss. A choked sound left his lips as he clutched Gregory in an equal grip, shivering hard. Greg’s lips lingered for a moment before pulling back, and Mycroft looked up at him, dazed and soft. 

“Lovely,” Gregory said again. “Show me the kitchen, darlin’.”

Mycroft let his feet lead the way on muscle memory alone, entering the kitchen and then stopping, looking at Greg for further direction. 

“Show me the kettle, the oatmeal, bowls, sugar, milk, and spoons,” Greg instructed, and Mycroft nodded, holding Gregory’s hand tight as he opened cupboards silently. Greg smiled, gathering things as he found them and setting them next to the kettle. He then picked up a cushion from one of the kitchen chairs, leading Mycroft back to where he had his setup, and then placing the cushion on the floor.

“I’m going to need both hands,” he explained. “You could stand and hug me, but your sweet legs are a bit shaky, and if you want to sit or kneel, that’s all right. You hold onto me, and I’ll make the food, and there’s no wrong way to do it.”

Mycroft’s breath shuddered at the thoughtfulness, instantly sinking to his knees on the cushion, head tipping forward to press his brow against the belt at Gregory’s hip as his arms clutched around one thigh like a child. Greg stroked his curls softly, not seeming to mind in the least. 

“That’s it,” he said softly. “Just a moment.”

Mycroft nodded, closing his eyes as Greg puttered above him. Greg’s thigh bled warmth through the fabric of his trousers, sinking into the parts where they touched. Mycroft grounded himself into the sensation, and when fingers stroked his hair again he nearly purred. 

“Time to go back to bed, darlin’,” Greg coaxed, voice warm. “Come back to me, that’s lovely. Nice and slow.”

Mycroft opened his eyes, eyelids heavy, and looked up at him. Greg’s gentle smile was blinding as he looked down at him, cradling the back of Mycroft’s head in his palm. “That’s it, beautiful. Think you can stand for me, Mycroft? I can give you a hand.”

Nodding, dazed, Mycroft let himself be hoisted up by strong arms, and then steadied against Gregory’s side. Greg’s smile didn’t waver at all as Mycroft struggled to find his bearings again. When Mycroft was steady, Greg took his hand, lifting a tray with bowls and cups on it with one hand. “Lead the way back,” he ordered gently, and Mycroft shivered, nodding as he left the cushion on the floor and guided them both back to his bedroom. 

Greg set down the tray on the side table, guiding Mycroft to lie down, then snuggling next to him before kissing his temple. “Comfy?”

Mycroft shifted just slightly, blushing as he nodded, tucking himself as close to Gregory as possible. Gregory hummed and reached for the tray, setting it on his lap. “Here we go. Start with this,” he said gently, lifting a glass of water to Mycroft’s lips. 

Mycroft’s brain went fuzzy at the obvious care in the action, and he sipped slowly, closing his eyes. The glass left, and then a spoon, warm with oatmeal, nudged his lips. He lost track of time between bites, sips of water, soft murmurs of, “that’s lovely,” and “good man.” By the time he was sated, Mycroft was boneless against Gregory’s side. 

Greg’s lips brushed against his temple again, and Mycroft's skin shivered with goose-pimples. He made the effort to open his eyes, looking up at Gregory in a daze, unsure what he was supposed to do next. 

“Shh. I don’t want anything else from you tonight,” Greg said gently, and Mycroft flushed. “Just a cuddle. I think we both need it. Get some sleep, and then we can face the morning.”

Mycroft nodded quietly, relaxing again, but managing to whisper quietly, “Thank you.”

Greg’s eyes were so soft as he kissed his temple. “You’re very welcome, Mycroft,” he murmured, arm tightening slightly around Mycroft, tucking him closer. Greg used his other hand to pull up the blankets, humming at the warmth, and relaxing again.

Mycroft closed his eyes and drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters 'today' (it's past midnight, my time, but I wanted to get these up) and then I'm hoping to do a chapter a day until I'm done. I've got most of this written out, so I should be able to stick to a schedule of some kind. Right? Right?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's a little fond. A lot fond. Perhaps besotted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in true "I have set myself a reasonable deadline" fashion, I posted the first two chapters and then was assigned a surprise essay that left me scrambling. My apologies. Here's chapter three to placate you.

Greg held Mycroft against his chest, watching him slip into sleep, and took another deep breath, then let it out. 

_Talk about going from 0 to 100_ , he thought to himself, hand stroking absently up and down Mycroft’s back, tracing over soft skin and freckles. He’d had a feeling - something absent and small - that Mycroft might be interested. Cheryl had left his life just a little too easily, the divorce fast and simple, and he knew her too well to think that was her choice. And at the same time, Mycroft’s meetings had grown more intimate. Nothing overt, nothing inappropriate. Just lingering over coffee when they were done talking about Sherlock. The occasional call on cases that got too close to the Home Office, with a personal apology for taking the case from his hands, instead of the brusque overtaking he’d had previously.

In short, Greg wasn’t completely oblivious. However, he’d hardly expected to go from the rarely extended coffee to… whatever this was. 

Mycroft shifted in his sleep with a soft noise, and Greg’s arms tightened around him, steadying him. He shook his head at himself. He’d been interested when all he knew was a polite demeanour and posh suits. Now that he’d seen the man beneath, in both senses of the word, he was far past interested. _Try besotted_ , he thought wryly. Finding out Mycroft had considered him trustworthy had been the most shocking aspect of the day, and Greg had found himself honoured to be depended on. Add to that the soft, desperate skin hunger that Mycroft had shown, and Greg had wanted to bundle him close and keep him safe forever.

In the morning, perhaps, Mycroft wouldn’t mind if he stayed for breakfast. Maybe he’d want a bit more time. Maybe Greg wouldn’t be summarily dismissed. After all, when Mycroft had written the Scenario, he’d specified he was sober. 

Greg didn’t want to get his hopes up. Instead, he curled closer, settling with Mycroft close, relaxing. If this was all he got, he was going to spend it enjoying every moment. And if it was the beginning of something larger… well. He’d be able to say he started well, with every part of him. If there was something he’d learned from the divorce, it was that he never wanted to half-arse another relationship. And Mycroft, of all people, deserved better. 

When he woke, Mycroft was already awake. He could feel the hesitant breathing of the man lying next to him. Nerves. _You don’t need to be afraid of me, sweetheart_. He very gently stroked Mycroft’s back with one hand, murmuring in a sleep-hoarse voice, “G’morning.”

Mycroft audibly swallowed, and Greg’s heart squeezed. “Good morning,” he whispered, voice cautious, as though he expected _Greg_  to be the one to change his mind. _No chance of that_. 

Greg kissed the top of Mycroft’s head, arm tightening around Mycroft’s waist slightly. “Sleep well?”

Nodding into Greg’s chest, Mycroft opened his mouth, and suddenly Greg knew what he was about to say. “No,” he preempted. “Don’t apologise, Mycroft.”

Mycroft looked up at him, and Greg felt his chest go tight at the vulnerability on his face. He shook his head again gently. “Don’t apologise,” he said softly. “You don’t need to.”

“It must have been a shock,” Mycroft said hoarsely, “To be pulled away from your plans, for-”

“For you. And you’re worth my time, and you’re worth being tugged away from a night in front of the telly,” Greg told him seriously, hand stroking his back again. “I meant it when I said we can change that number. Scenario Naught, yeah? You need me, I’m there, barring murder. Though considering your clearance level, you could probably pull me from that, too.”

Mycroft made a soft disbelieving sound, and Greg kissed his temple gently, holding him closer when he felt Mycroft shudder. “‘s all right, darlin’. You’re not a bother.”

“Gregory, I-” Mycroft started, then hid his face again, shivering. “How long are you staying?” he said, voice muffled against Greg’s skin.

_Gregory. Shite, I’m a goner._  “How long have I got?”

“My people have... probably cleared your schedule,” Mycroft said hoarsely, and Greg smiled, hand stroking up and down gently. 

“Then I’ve got time,” he said, and Mycroft trembled against him again. Greg let his hand gently shift to card fingers through the curling strands of his hair, smiling at the curl. “Knew you’d have these,” he murmured, without thinking. “And freckles. I hoped you’d have freckles, anyway. Not that I spent much time thinking I’d get to see them.”

Mycroft pulled his head back to stare at Greg, eyes wide, and Greg looked back. He knew his heart had sped up, nervous, but he couldn’t regret the words. After scanning Greg’s expression, Mycroft slowly went pink and murmured, “You thought of me.”

Greg smiled quietly. “More than I prob’ly should've, darlin’.”

Mycroft’s pink intensified, and he tucked himself back against Greg with a quiet shiver. Greg’s hand continued to play in Mycroft’s hair. It took a few minutes of quiet before Mycroft whispered, “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to,” Greg admitted. “Figured you’re way out of my league, with your suits and cars and security. ‘m just a DI.”

To his surprise, Mycroft’s expression was mutinous when he pulled back to look at him. “Absolutely not,” Mycroft said, and Greg was left blinking as Mycroft continued, “You’re kind and humble, and willing to sacrifice your pride and comfort for the sake of truth and justice. You’re good in ways that neither I nor my brother can emulate, and it’s I who cannot live up to the standard you set-” he cut himself off abruptly, and suddenly Greg had soft lips pressed urgently to his own.

Greg kissed back. It wasn’t much of a kiss, if he was honest, more a determined assault of lips for half a second before Mycroft seemed to lose his nerve, squeaking and pulling away to duck his head and hide it in Greg’s shoulder.

One deep breath in, then one out, and Greg murmured, “Mycroft?”

A soft shiver was all he got in response, and Greg tilted his head to kiss the side of Mycroft’s. “Come back,” he coaxed gently, “Let me kiss you right, darlin’. Just kisses, Mycroft, I promise, but I can’t let you think ‘m all teeth.”

Mycroft made a little choked laugh, and after a moment he lifted his head, looking desperately afraid, almost manic. Greg’s chest went tight again. He cupped Mycroft’s cheek in his palm. “Shh,” he murmured, “Lovely man. I’m going to kiss you, now. And there will be no more of this better or lesser business, mm? Just kisses. Close your eyes?”

Mycroft did, eyes fluttering shut, naked trust on his face, and Greg’s heart trembled before he gently leaned in. Soft kisses, tender brushes of lips on lips, one, two, three. On the third Mycroft moaned, and the arms around him tightened, Mycroft clinging as their lips moved together perfectly. Greg kissed him until he felt Mycroft melt against him, the tension leaving in favour of sinking as close to Greg as he could. Greg could taste the shaking breaths against his lips, feel how Mycroft’s lips changed texture where he’d been biting nervously. He stroked up and down Mycroft’s back, soothing, holding him close, and when he pulled away he kept his arms tight around him, just needing to breathe. “There we go,” he murmured, and Mycroft trembled quietly once.

“I was detained in Russia,” Mycroft bit out, as though the words were hot and burning and he was flinging them away from himself. “They hurt me, Gregory, and I cannot - I cannot -“ he stopped, shaking as he opened his eyes, and met Greg’s. Greg didn’t know his own expression, his heart aching, but Mycroft scanned it and shivered again. “Will you - will you?” he whispered, “I need it - need gentle hands - I need to feel my body as my own again - but I cannot with anyone I do not trust, Gregory-“

He broke off as Greg cupped his cheek quietly, chest tight and aching. Greg surprised himself with the ferocity in his chest. _How dare they touch you, darlin’. How dare they make you feel that way._  He made sure none of the anger was in his touch, though - it was gentle, coaxing Mycroft back to his lips, and he felt Mycroft shudder hard against him when they kissed again. _Gonna take care of you, sweetheart. Gonna cherish you._

Mycroft’s soft whine made Greg shiver, and he rolled carefully, Mycroft beneath him but taking none of his weight - supported by his elbows, protective, not confining. The kiss was unbroken as he shifted his weight to the left elbow and used his right hand to stroke down Mycroft’s side. “Gregory,” Mycroft gasped against his lips, as Greg bit back a groan, shivering at the soft skin. 

Greg should have known better than to keep anything back from a Holmes. Mycroft tugged his hair, gasping against his lips, “No - Gregory - please. If I affect you - I want to know-”

“Ah, fuck, darlin’,” Greg gasped out in response. There was very little else he could manage, tilting his head to mouth kisses down Mycroft’s neck, shuddering. “ _If_  you affect me?” He shifted his hips, letting himself press against Mycroft’s thigh, and then lifted his head at the pleased gasp. Mycroft was wide-eyed and shocked, flushing pink with amazed delight. Greg let himself smile, and revelled in the awe on Mycroft’s face as he murmured, “Mycroft, there’s no _if_  involved here.”

Mycroft’s response was to clutch at Greg’s lower back, shivering. “G-Gregory. You are-?” he cut off, trembling again, eyes wide. 

Greg let his lips trace Mycroft’s, tasting little panting breaths as he murmured, “Hard, sweetheart. Hard for you, course I am, look at you, gorgeous.” The soft tremble against him told Greg he’d gotten this right, and he shivered hard. “You’ll code red for me, darlin’, if it’s too much?” Frantic nodding, and a tentative arch toward his body that Greg soothed with a stroke to Mycroft’s side. “Good man. Lovely, so lucky you chose me, sweetheart, I’ll take care of you.”

“P-please,” Mycroft gasped out, and Greg kissed his lips feather-soft before leaning up to fumble in the bedside drawer. He felt several toys before he found the lube, and could feel Mycroft watching his face, but he kept his expression gentle, dropping the lube into the bedclothes next to them. Mycroft had blushed down to his navel - which was gorgeously enticing - and whispered shyly, “I - when I’m alone -”

“You take care of yourself,” Greg smiled, “Course you do, clever man. ’s important, knowing what you like, letting yourself relax.” Mycroft blushed further, and Greg shivered, kissing down the blush, nuzzling softly into the pink skin. “Look at you, gorgeous. Turnin’ pink for me, ’s perfect. I won’t make fun of you, Mycroft. ’s okay.” Mycroft’s hands clutched at his hair in tentative little tugs, watching him kiss Mycroft’s chest, looking amazed and overwhelmed at once, and Greg murmured, “Tell me what you like, Mycroft. ’s safe.”

A heartbreaking hesitation, and then a nearly inaudible whisper. “C-can I touch?”

_Oh, god, darlin’, you’re gonna kill me._ “Yes,” Greg murmured, “You can touch me, Mycroft. Course you can, sweetheart.” 

Mycroft’s face was pink and shy as he reached for the lube. Greg watched, heart pounding silently. Mycroft tipped a generous amount into his hands, slicking his fingers before reaching down between them. Shifting his weight again to lift his hips, giving Mycroft room, Greg hissed through his teeth with a shudder at the first touch. Mycroft’s hand was warm, slick, long fingers dextrously mapping the veins along the underside, carefully weighing Greg’s balls in the palm of his hand before rolling them against his fingers. Greg swore in a gasp as Mycroft took him in hand, and forced his eyes open to look at Mycroft. 

Wide-eyed, Mycroft was watching his hand, and then lifted his eyes to meet Greg’s, as Greg panted above him. “You are exquisite,” Mycroft whispered, cheeks flushed, pupils blown huge. “I’d thought you'd be - I mean-“

Greg shuddered and rocked into his hand, voice husky with arousal, “Did you deduce me, Mycroft? Imagine what I’d feel like in your hand?” Mycroft’s cheeks go pinker, and the shy nod makes Greg’s cock twitch. “God, that’s sexy, d’you know that’s sexy? Clever as hell and so good, Mycroft - nnn - fuck-” he broke off as Mycroft tentatively swiped his thumb over the tip. 

“Would you say things like that, if I let go?” Mycroft asked him, and Greg felt his hand tremble. For a long moment, Greg scrambled to understand what Mycroft was asking, and it took two deep breaths and a long scan of Mycroft’s face before he understood.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, Mycroft. I meant what I said. I’d take care of you, lovely man. It’s all right. Is that what you need?”

Mycroft’s expression was complex, and it took Greg another moment to realise he was trying not to cry. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, and then Mycroft was shaking, hand smearing lube over Greg’s back as he scrambled and clung to Greg, closer, _closer_ , sobbing once as he pleaded against Greg’s skin. 

“Stay - stay and take care of me - t-tell me that I’m - I’m - and let me - touch - take - take so I don’t have t-to, to think - I need - help me -” Mycroft pleaded between distressed sobs, and Greg stroked his curls, down his back, holding him tighter, closer, kissing over his curls. 

“I’ve got you,” he promised softly. “Got you, Mycroft. Take a breath for me, sweetheart, soft breath in.” He made it an order, and immediately the pleas stopped, and he felt Mycroft’s chest expand. “And out,” he prompted, and Mycroft’s air left in a whoosh. “Gorgeous. Soft breaths, now, keep going,” he murmured, before reaching for the lube again. “I want you to just feel for a bit, darlin’, and then I’m going to have you help me, mm? For right now I just want you to feel.” 

Mycroft’s head nodded against his chest, and Greg kissed the top of his curls again before reaching between them, taking both of their cocks in his slick hand, having a gut feeling Mycroft wouldn’t want to be touched alone. The soft cry against his chest made his breath catch - it sounded of pleasure and bewilderment at once. Greg paused, letting Mycroft adjust. “That’s it, beautiful. Shh. Together, sweetheart, ‘m right here.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft gasped out, and Greg nuzzled into the side of his neck, ducking his head to kiss softly. 

“Mm. ’s just me, sweetheart. Just me taking care of you, promise, lovely man. So good for me. Want to feel you against me, Mycroft. Feel that? How hard I am?”

“Y-yes.” It was a shy, almost inaudible whisper, and Greg had to swallow. _You’re too sweet for words, Mycroft. You don’t know how much I want this._ He breathed through the surge of emotion, stroking once, softly, and revelling in the way he felt Mycroft’s breath hitch. 

“You’re so good,” Greg murmured, stroking slowly, “So good for me, Mycroft. Letting me take care of you. I want to, darlin’, ‘s not a burden, it’s a gift. Gorgeous man.” He could feel Mycroft trembling, gasping against his chest, the hands on his back clinging. Greg’s hand moved smoothly over them both, spreading lube, making him shiver at Mycroft’s warm length against his. “‘m going to guide you, take care of you. Breathe, beautiful.” 

Mycroft breathed deep and then trembled again as he hitched out shakily, “Want me?”

“Want you so much,” Greg breathed, _want you more than I can describe, look at you, letting me see you like this_. “Does it feel good, Mycroft? Tell me, sweetheart, if it’s not -”

“So good,” Mycroft gasped instantly, lifting his face to look at Greg, and Greg felt all his breath leave at once. Oh; that expression. The sheer want and dizzy pleasure written over Mycroft’s face, in the crease of his brow as he hitched a breath, the soft curve of his lips. Greg kissed him again, shuddering as he tugged him just that much closer. 

“Lovely man,” Greg murmured against his lips when he pulled back to breathe. His hand still stroked them both, and Mycroft was looking up at him, dazed and shivering and perfect. “Absolutely perfect for me, sweetheart. Pay attention, now, to my hand. Can you do that, sweetheart? Want you to pay attention, memorise it.” 

Mycroft arched with a shudder, nodding frantically, and Greg smiled. He didn’t do anything tricky or complex; it was just the soft tug at the tip, the slow slide down, the pull up both their lengths again. Steady, constant pleasure like waves on a shoreline. 

“That’s it, beautiful. Your hand’s already slick. I want you to do this bit, now.” It was an order, but a gentle one, and one that was more than welcome if Mycroft’s gasp and eager reach down was anything to go by. His slick hand took over, stroking them both exactly as Greg had shown him. Greg let himself moan his approval, shuddering as he tried to keep his hips still. 

After a moment Mycroft began to sink into the mattress, boneless with pleasure. Greg continued to murmur praise between his moans - “That’s perfect, darlin’,” or “Oh, those lovely fingers-” and each gasp seemed to unravel Mycroft more and more. Greg’s heart ached with it. _I’ll tell you you’re pretty, sweetheart. I’ll give you direction, I’ll tell you you’re lovely. All you want to do is be good, don’t you? And no one told you that you were good, lovely. I’ll tell you you’re perfect._ And he did, in breathless praise, letting his voice catch so Mycroft could hear. He wanted Mycroft to hear how he affected him. He wanted Mycroft to feel adored - wanted - cherished. 

He let himself get close to the edge, and then breathed, “Lovely, Mycroft, stop, sweetheart.” He didn’t want to come yet. Not like this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being cared for and intimate is overwhelming in every good way for Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right; the next chapter should be the climax (ha!) of the story, and either the last or second-to-last chapter. It's being sticky at the moment, so I'm going to hazard about a week until it's up (sorry!). In the meantime, have some trembling Mycroft.

Gregory was saying his name, calling him sweet things, and Mycroft could barely breathe. His hand was on them both. Gregory had shown him exactly what to do, and then let Mycroft touch him - touch both of them. Gregory trusted him with this. 

Mycroft felt like a cello string, pulled taught and stroked expertly with a bow. Gregory hadn’t judged his request. He'd immediately taken charge and let Mycroft sink into the sound of his voice. But now he was being asked to stop, and he caught his breath, shuddering, gasping out, “But I want you.”

“You’ll have me,” Greg promised, voice low and gentle, soothing Mycroft’s taut nerves, and Mycroft shuddered, looking up at him as Greg continued, “You’ll have me, sweetheart, just not like this, not yet. There’s so much of you, gorgeous, and I haven’t even begun.”

_Haven_ _’_ _t even begun_ , Greg’s voice echoed in Mycroft’s head, and he felt his spine arch and shudder at the thought, suddenly feeling every inch of skin. It ached to be touched. He wanted Gregory’s hands stroking over his body, wanted soft care and comfort to overlay the marks. He let go, clinging to Greg’s back instead, shivering as Greg’s clean hand stroked down his side. “Shh, sweetheart. Gorgeous. ‘m gonna kiss you, Mycroft. Kiss and touch you, mm? Let me explore you, beautiful.”

“‘m not- I’m not,” Mycroft gasped, eyes filling. Beautiful, he was not. They’d told him quite clearly what they’d done to him. Broken him, made him ugly, undesirable. They’d mocked him with it, and he’d felt it carved into his skin.

But now that very same skin was now being touched with gentle hands. Caressed, even, as though Greg wished to indulge himself. The thought made Mycroft heady with shivery hope.

“You are _lovely_  for me,” Greg’s voice said, husky (aroused, Mycroft’s brain told him, somewhere in the back of his mind), and then lips stroked over Mycroft’s chest, to the pink bud on his right, and nerves sparked with pleasure. Weathered hands, masculine with strength and labour, whispered feather-light over his hips, holding him gently, and Mycroft arched between lips and fingers as though he were a live wire. 

_Perhaps I’ve died already,_  he thought deliriously, _perhaps I entered heaven._  Greg’s mouth was warm, wet, gentle even when teeth accidentally brushed the sensitive nub, and Mycroft couldn’t help his soft cry, body falling back into the mattress. “Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Greg approved, but Mycroft couldn’t see his face - Mycroft’s eyes had closed. He couldn’t bear to look at Greg right now - it was so much, and yet not enough. 

Greg seemed to sense what Mycroft needed, and lifted his head to kiss Mycroft’s lips as Greg’s hands stroked up his sides, tracing ribs and marks alike, and then digging between Mycroft’s back and the mattress to smooth down the scar-mottled skin. The touch neither lingered nor shied away - it was simple acceptance. Mycroft felt grounded in his body, and shuddered with the sheer relief of it. 

“Oh,” Greg said, and his voice was smiling. It took effort for Mycroft to open his eyes, wanting the sight as well as the sound. Greg’s eyes were crinkled at the corners, approving and fond, as he murmured, “That was it, mm? You relaxed gorgeously there, darlin’.”

The flush tingled down his chest as Mycroft whispered back, “I feel like I’m here. The sheets are soft.” He couldn’t find the right words, but any embarrassment about his lack of elocution was brushed away before it began when Greg’s smile brightened further. 

“Mm. Right here with me, Mycroft,” he murmured. “My hands aren’t too rough?” They stroked up his ribs again, and Mycroft shivered, shaking his head quickly.

“N-no,” his voice wavered, catching at the touch. “No, they’re lovely. I want-“ he stopped himself instantly, but Greg had caught on. 

“Tell me what you want,” he ordered gently, and his face was open, intrigued. “Tell me, sweetheart, I won’t judge.”

Body alive as it was, Mycroft could feel the warmth of his blush intensify on his cheeks. “Inside,” he murmured, “I want them in me - I’ve always been more sensitive inside-“

Gregory’s face was so expressive. Mycroft wondered if Greg knew that he could radiate lust, gentleness, patience, and hunger all with a twitch of his eyebrows and a huff of breath between swollen lips. “Yes,” Greg breathed, “I noticed your toys. I can give you that, Mycroft. Course I will. But first tell me if you like being sucked.”

Mycroft’s breath left in a punch of air at the idea, tense. “I - maybe?” he managed, throat tight, “Maybe - I would - but you’d be so far away-“

“Then I’ll stay with you,” Greg immediately reassured him. His lips brushed over Mycroft’s cheekbones, and the gentleness of it told Mycroft that the hesitation was understood - his inexperience was known, accepted, but Greg showed no signs of doubting Mycroft’s decisions. Relief helped Mycroft relax again; Mycroft didn’t want to be asked over and over if he was ‘sure’. He was sure of what he wanted - Gregory - just unsure of what he liked with a partner as of yet, and when Greg’s lubed fingers stroked his inner thigh he parted them. He was more than willing to find out, if it was with Greg. 

Gentle fingers stroked his inner thigh, then up to cup his balls, gently rolling and stroking them in a way that made Mycroft whimper and arch, wanting them back, behind. Gregory obliged, confident fingers assuring Mycroft that he was taken care of as they stroked over his entrance, spreading lube as Greg whispered, “My god, you gorgeous thing. ‘m gonna make you feel so good, My.” Greg kissed him again, and Mycroft gasped against his lips, clean hand reaching to slide into Greg’s silver hair. 

Mycroft had dreamt of touching Greg’s hair - on indulgent nights, when he was alone - the softness between his fingers, the silver glint. To have the fantasy become real just as Gregory’s finger slid into him was nearly enough to make him come, and he sobbed out Greg’s name in warning. The finger stilled, and Greg’s lips tilted into a soft smile. “All right, sweetheart. Slow, mm? Slow. You’re so beautiful.”

Nodding in a shaky jerk, Mycroft stammered out, “I - oh, I wanted you-“

“Beautiful man,” Greg whispered. “You have me now, Mycroft. I’m right here.” 

Mycroft nodded again, clutching him closer. “You’ll take care of me,” he whispered, more certain of that than anything else, and looked up at him in time to see Greg’s eyes go dark and so very warm. Mycroft wanted to drown in the gentleness written over his face: every line was comfort and protection. 

“Yes,” Greg breathed. “I’ll take care of you, Mycroft. I’m going to move my finger, now, and you’ll tell me if it’s too much, mm?” Mycroft shivered, gasping his affirmation, thighs trembling as Gregory’s finger moved - moved - 

His eyes slammed shut, body arching into the sensation. “Oh - Gregory -“

“Mm,” Greg approved, and Mycroft knew he was watching. The thought had him moaning, centred on the single finger inside. Greg was rocking it gently, opening him further. Mycroft bore down, shivering, wanting more. He imagined himself, flushed, hands clutching Gregory’s hair as the man himself knelt between his thighs, and felt his cock twitch, gasping. The odd thought came into his head that he felt attractive - in his imagination, Greg was gazing at him with lust and fondness mixed - and he had a sudden certainty that if he opened his eyes, he’d only confirm it. 

A second finger, a second gasp, arching with a desperate sob. Mycroft’s body was incandescent. He felt given back to himself: his own, his to give to whom he pleased, and oh, he wanted to give himself to Greg. “Inside me,” he gasped, “inside me, Gregory, please? Please.” He was rocking onto both fingers now, shaking with it. 

“Mycroft,” Greg breathed, “Mycroft, look at me, darlin’, let me see you.” It was gentle, but it was an order, not a request, and Mycroft opened his eyes, feeling himself tremble. Greg’s breath hitched as he scanned Mycroft's face, and finally whispered, “All right. All right, beautiful. Let me get a condom, Mycroft. Breathe for me, sweetheart, breathe.”

Mycroft nodded, gasping for breath - he hadn’t realised he’d stopped breathing, frozen as he waited for Greg to make his decision. Watching him closely, Greg made sure he was centred before removing his fingers carefully, reaching for the drawer, hand rustling before it came back with the foil packet. 

“Let me?” Mycroft breathed, shivering, and Greg smiled, handing it to him. His fingers slipped back inside Mycroft easily, making him gasp and rock as he fumbled with the packet, finally managing to get it open and pull out the condom. He had to reach to carefully roll it onto Gregory’s cock, fingers trembling only slightly, realising that he was allowed this: to touch and take. Stroking twice, he made sure the condom was on and secure. 

“Ready?” Greg asked, voice low and soft, and Mycroft shuddered, looking up at him. This was real. It was happening, and Gregory was going to be inside him. The thought left him unable to breathe, nodding frantically rather than answering. He clutched Gregory’s shoulders (muscles flexing under his fingertips - strength, gentleness) and pressed his thighs further apart, arching up. The pillow slipped under his hips surprised him, making him close his eyes tight as he recognised the care in the action. 

When Greg pulled his fingers out, Mycroft was left whining, gasping, but then Greg’s cock was nudging his entrance, and then in - in - in - and Mycroft sobbed his name, gasping as he arched into it. He was fully stretched; the press was all pleasure, no pain, and he didn’t know if he’d survive it. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's never felt this close to anyone before. Never felt this necessary. He can only hope Mycroft doesn't regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I want to be assigned more work than I can handle, apparently all I have to do is set a deadline for my personal writing, and I'll just get dogpiled by my university. I'm so sorry, y'all. I think we're two chapters out from the end, now, so I've set a tentative chapter count!

Greg felt his breath freeze as he held himself still, watching Mycroft for any sign of pain. It took effort; he pushed back his body’s urge to rut and bury and keep Mycroft close. When he could focus enough, he managed to suck in air and breathe, “Mycroft. Sweetheart, look at me. Tell me where you’re at, darlin’.”

Mycroft blinked up at him, expression soft and dazed. A surge of protection welled in Greg’s chest as Mycroft whispered, “It’s so warm. Everything’s so warm, Gregory.”

Greg smiled slightly, and shifted his weight to one elbow so he could stroke Mycroft’s hair again, cradling his head in his palm. Mycroft arched into the touch as Greg asked, “Good-warm?”

“Mmm. Gregory, move, I want you to move,” Mycroft replied, and Greg’s entire spine shivered.

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” he breathed, smile growing as he experimentally rolled his hips. The moan that left Mycroft’s lips had Greg breathless in an instant. 

_Never felt like this with anyone else, did it? His sounds can light you up from the inside. You’re never going to recover from this, Greg,_  he realised, and groaned as he bent his head to brush their lips together. Every rock of his hips was sheer pleasure, and brought out needy gasps from Mycroft. 

Hands clung to his back and then one slid up into his hair and sparks tingled over his skin. He sucked in a breath, breaking the kiss to adjust his angle, and the sharp sting of nails told Greg he’d gotten it right as Mycroft cried out his name. The tight heat around Greg’s cock somehow became even more intense, his head spinning.

Mycroft was a feast of sensation; soft skin, warm breath, soft cries — Greg wanted to do nothing more than indulge. But Mycroft had trusted him with this; trusted Greg to take care of him and make sure he was all right. So Greg forced himself to focus on the man beneath him, gently guiding eager lips to kiss his again. “That’s it,” he breathed, “That’s it, Mycroft, you’re perfect, you’re wonderful for me, sweet, beautiful man.”

The tremble of Mycroft’s body with every soft word of praise was enough to make Greg’s heart clench. The roll of his hips turned into thrusts, trying to stay at the right angle, wanting to maximise Mycroft’s pleasure. And Mycroft gave back; sweet sounds and the clinging sting of his nails, the arch of his body into Greg’s chest.

Greg shifted his hand, stroking down Mycroft’s neck to his chest, thumbing over a nipple and moaning at the sound that tore from Mycroft’s throat. Mycroft was all willing, wet heat; he shivered and shone with sweat as he took each thrust and touch eagerly, gripping and gasping in return. Greg had never in his life felt so wanted, so necessary. Mycroft clung to him like the world centred on Greg being inside him, and Greg wasn’t about to let him down.  _Never, darlin’, I’ve got you. I’ve got you safe._

“Gr-Gregory, I - I’m - stop,” Mycroft gasped, and ice poured into Greg’s veins. He froze, immediately pulling back to scan Mycroft’s face. He was pink, face scrunched up in what could be either pain or pleasure. Greg shifted to pull out, but Mycroft’s grip held him still as he gasped, “No, I - I’m too close, I can’t-“

The pounding of his heart restarting nearly deafened Greg as he breathed, “’s all right, I won’t move. ‘m right here, gorgeous, it’s all right. Not moving, Mycroft.” He watched Mycroft take several deep breaths, calming himself even as Greg’s heart rate ramped higher. He hadn’t even touched Mycroft’s cock yet, and still - _my god, sweetheart_. He was barely breathing as he watched Mycroft’s eyes flutter open to meet his, even as Mycroft's face went the most enticing pink.

“I apologise,” Mycroft whispered, and Greg shook his head wordlessly, kissing his forehead, his temple, his cheeks, trying to find his voice as he nuzzled into his neck and left more kisses. Mycroft’s whimper tore at his heart. 

“You’re beautiful,” Greg finally managed to breathe into his skin. “You’re perfect. You don’t need to apologise. That was-“ he shook his head, hair brushing Mycroft’s skin, and he felt Mycroft’s fingertips tighten in the strands. “You’re incredible, Mycroft.”

“I,” Mycroft gasped, and Greg heard it all in the crack of his voice — the fear that he’d been too much, or too little — Mycroft’s desperation to be enough. Greg lifted his head and met his eyes. 

“I mean it,” he said quietly. “I mean every word, Mycroft. If you’d come, I’d have been honoured, not upset; to be the man who makes you come, Mycroft? That’s incredible. I can’t believe you chose me.”

Mycroft’s eyes welled again, and Greg thumbed away wetness from the corners as Mycroft gasped out, “Move, please move, please make me come, Gregory — I want — I want—“

“Yes,” Greg breathed and began to move again, careful, warm, wanting to coax Mycroft to climax, wanting him to feel safe and treasured at his most vulnerable. 

When Mycroft let go Greg felt his heart stop. He arched into Greg’s body, clinging, and Greg wished he could have seen his face, but Mycroft had tucked it against Greg’s neck and shoulder like he couldn’t bear to have even a centimetre of separation, like they were fusing together as he sobbed against Greg’s skin, pulsing between them. Greg slid one arm around him, letting his weight bear down slightly, just wanting to be closer as the soft sounds pulled him over the edge as well, trembling hard. It was breath, connection, skin and heartbeat, and he trembled with the force of it. 

_I don’t want this to end._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that when you find someone this good for you, you don't want to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless you all for being so patient with me. This is the second-to-last chapter: a tiny epilogue left, this is the real end of the story. The epilogue probably won't come till near Christmas, I'm afraid. I'm swamped with uni work and have to wait for the hols.  
> Enjoy!

Mycroft clung to Gregory. His body was shaking slightly, heat flooding through him in waves, the aftershocks of his orgasm making him feel vulnerable and incandescent at the same time. Breath left him in pants, ankles locking behind Gregory’s back in a mute plea to stay where he was. Mycroft kept his eyes closed, turning to hide what he felt must be an embarrassing expression, but Gregory’s hand shifted to cup his cheek in a warm press of palm to skin, and Greg murmured, “Darlin’. Right here, sweetheart, ‘m right here.”

His voice sounded wrecked and hoarse, and that was primarily what made Mycroft open his eyes, blinking to see Greg’s face twist in an expression he was trying to hide. But he wasn’t fast enough. Mycroft caught it: the wistfulness, the longing, and — making him shiver — the flash of dark possession in the back of Gregory’s honey-brown eyes. 

It was enough to make Mycroft relax, because he was suddenly certain it wasn’t just him. That expression hadn’t been purposeful. Gregory had tried to hide it. But Mycroft’s chest ached with a similar need — an equal want to possess, keep close, and care for the man he now held. “Gregory.”

“I’ve got you,” Greg promised, and Mycroft nodded wordlessly, scanning his face before he managed to speak.

“How long have you got me?” he asked, and Greg blinked, eyes flickering in confusion. It took him a long moment, and then Mycroft watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“However long you’ll have me,” Gregory said, and Mycroft shivered, then squeaked at the sensation in his arse where they were joined. Greg flushed hard, and nearly pulled back, but Mycroft clung to him with his thighs, keeping him there.

“And if I wanted to have you forever?” he asked, heart racing, face pink, body hypersensitive with shivers, with orgasm, with closeness and intimacy. 

Greg’s breath left in a soft huff, warmth brushing Mycroft’s collarbone, Greg tucking his face against Mycroft’s neck and shoulder as if he were safer there. He was, Mycroft knew, because Mycroft would never hurt him, he’d hold him close and cherish him. Gregory had done the same for him. 

“I’ve got a bitch of an ex-wife,” Gregory said, and Mycroft forced himself not to tense up, to listen instead, because Greg’s voice sounded thick with emotion. “And I work too much. I put my feet on the coffee table. I drink too much crap beer, and my cooking is only good if it’s a pasta dish. And I — I — I have no idea how to wear a suit, My, it’s — I’m not sure I’m who you need — whom you need —“

Mycroft did his best to listen. He really did. But Gregory’s description of himself just sounded charming — aside from the ex-wife, how dare she hurt him — and the nickname _My_  sunk into his chest, warming it from the inside. He interrupted Greg gently with a kiss to his silvering hair. 

“I work too much as well,” he said, “And I’m known for being slightly overprotective. I’m enormously picky about wines, and I don’t know how to do a relationship, Gregory, I’m absolutely pants at it — but if you’ll have me —“

Greg was shaking, and Mycroft broke off to look at him, but Greg lifted his head, and he was smiling, laughing softly. “You’re pants at it?” he asked Mycroft. “Did you just say that?”

Mycroft blinked at him, feeling Gregory’s laughter through his whole body, and began to smile slightly. “What? I can be street,” he mock-grumbled, “Sometimes. I’m related to Sherlock, after all.”

“Because Sherlock is street,” Greg snickered harder, tucking himself back down against Mycroft’s shoulder, and Mycroft felt his stomach flip and go warm as Gregory made himself at home against him, snuggling until he was comfortable. “I don’t mind,” Greg said, after a moment, smiling against Mycroft’s skin (Mycroft could feel the curve of his lips as they moved), “If you’re picky about wines.”

“I don’t mind if you put your feet on the coffee table,” Mycroft said softly, and Greg hummed, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

“We could try,” he said softly. “You may be pants at relationships, and so am I. But… we trust each other already, and that’s half of it. Isn’t it?”

Mycroft’s fingers stroked and curled into Greg’s hair, strands soft against his fingertips as he murmured, “I believe so. You’ve seen me at my… most broken.” 

Greg made a soft noise. “You saw me at mine.” 

Mycroft tried not to think about Gregory after Sherlock had jumped, on probation with the Yard, blaming himself, drowning in cheap booze and takeaway before Mycroft had picked him up in a very nice car and told him firmly that Sherlock had known it wasn’t Greg’s choice to arrest him: “I was unable to speak much with my brother during those few hours he was running from the law, but I did receive a few messages.” Gregory had been so grateful for that. Just the small hint of belief and forgiveness. When Sherlock came back, Greg hadn’t been nearly as upset as he should have been with Mycroft for keeping the secret. Mycroft stroked down his back and said softly, “We seem to be good for one another.”

“Mmm,” Greg hummed against his skin, and stole another kiss against Mycroft’s neck, then slipped out of him, soft, making them both shiver and make slightly uncomfortable sounds. Mycroft flushed, and Greg murmured, “Let me run you a bath, love. And then we’ll discuss terms.”

“Terms?” Mycroft asked, pink and slightly confused, but Greg lifted his head, and Mycroft felt himself smile automatically at the spark in Greg’s eyes. 

“Terms,” he agreed. “Boyfriends? Partners? Lovers? How do I introduce you to the Yard? That sort of thing.”

Mycroft’s smile grew, until he knew he must look utterly cracked. He didn’t care. “Oh. Those sorts of terms,” he agreed breathlessly, and then Greg was kissing him, and Mycroft moaned his approval against his lips, hand tight in Greg’s silver hair. When they pulled apart, Greg was panting too, and Mycroft whispered, “Yes to all of them.”

Greg grinned, and smooched his nose, and got up to start the water in the bathroom. Mycroft panted for a moment against the mattress, gathering his breath back, and then smiled to the ceiling before getting up and joining him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've decided "partner" is a good term.

 “‘m just saying,” Sally grumbled, “I don’t think it was his brother. The wife feels shifty.”

“We can’t go off hunches,” Greg told her tiredly, “We’ve got evidence on the brother, so we have to follow it. If you can find me leads on the wife, I’ll follow those.” He shifted his weight to the other foot, trying to ease the soreness aching through his muscles, but it only moved it to his left leg instead. The coffee in his hand was long cold. 

“But the wife-“ Sally began when a voice gently interrupted.

“If you’ll excuse me,” it said, liquid-smooth and somehow managing to be polite even when stepping in halfway through a sentence, “I believe you might have more luck looking at the brother’s wife.” A shiver of anticipatory pleasure slid down Greg’s spine as he began to smile despite the ache in his bones. He turned to grin at Mycroft, letting the cold coffee in his hand be swapped out for a blessedly warm one. Mycroft handed the cold coffee to his assistant, who took it without hesitation. 

“Hello, you,” Greg said, unable to keep the warmth from his voice. “Why the brother’s wife?”

“I’m sorry,” Sally spluttered, “But who-“

“My partner,” Greg said, turning to her even as he shifted the coffee to his other hand, his now-warm fingers reaching to take Mycroft’s. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Holmes?” she asked, eyes wide, and Greg couldn’t help chuckling. 

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, and smiled slightly, letting go of Greg’s hand for a moment to shake hers. “I hear you’ve met my brother, I do apologise.” 

She blinked twice, then gave a wan smile as she shook, too shocked to do much else. Mycroft took Greg’s hand again as he asked, “So, why the brother’s wife?”

Mycroft nodded to the rubbish bag on the curb. “Mrs Chopra is well past menopause, my dear; she has no need for feminine products.”

“So why are there pads in the rubbish,” Sally breathed, and walked away briskly, walkie-talkie going to her mouth as she snapped, “We need a DNA sample from…” 

Greg stopped paying attention in favour of looking over at his partner. “Brilliant man,” he murmured, and had the pleasure of watching Mycroft’s ears go pink.

“I only stopped by to give you the coffee, and ask if you think you’d be free for dinner this evening,” Mycroft said, and Greg felt his stomach go warm. Dinner was new, and it was perfect: domestic and quiet and gentle. The ache in his feet lessened at the thought of putting them up on Mycroft’s sofa arm, Mycroft cuddled against his chest after dessert. Mycroft was surprisingly lenient about Greg’s tendency to misuse furniture. Greg thought it was because it always meant snuggles. 

“I’ll be there,” he promised, “Just send me a car.” Mycroft, it turned out, had several houses, alternating from one to the other as safety demanded — it was best for Greg to just get picked up then try to figure out where to go. “Shall I bring anything?”

Mycroft’s slow smile made Greg’s neck go warm. “Just you, my dear.”

Greg murmured, “I can do that,” just as Mycroft’s assistant came forward again, hands empty (where did she put the coffee, Greg wondered) except for the phone that she couldn’t look away from. 

“Sir, we need to-“

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed, and lifted his cheek. Greg grinned as he placed the expected kiss on it, and Mycroft squeezed his hand before letting go. “I shall see you later.”

“Yes you shall,” Greg agreed, and watched as Mycroft headed back to his car, assistant falling in smoothly next to him. The clearing of a throat drew his attention from the lines of Mycroft’s suit. He looked back to see Sally standing there, looking slightly bashful. She paused and then seemed to settle for something to say.

“Well, sir, at least you got the polite Holmes,” she managed with a wry smile, and Greg began to laugh.

“Yes. Yes I did,” he said, walking back with her to the crime scene. Greg was tired, but feeling good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end. I've only got one exam left; I revised all day and desperately missed Greg and Mycroft. I took the luxury of coming back to finish. Thank you all so much for seeing me through to the end, and all your fantastic support. 
> 
> A note for those of you who may be migrating from Tumblr to other fandom spaces: you can find me on [Dreamwidth](https://alchemistdoctor.dreamwidth.org) for rambles, updates on my life, and fandom stuff, and I'd love to see you there!

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Mottlemoth for helping me summarise this. Summaries are not my best point on good days, and especially not after working on my chem dissertation, so bless you for dealing with my scrambled brain. (Also, I haven't counted the amount of "darlin'"'s that snuck into this but those are all yours. End Game did this to me.)


End file.
